


There is a Crack in Everything

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark!Harry, M/M, consent not as present/clear-cut as some might like, second-in-command!Snape with a twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape belongs to Harry—or perhaps Harry is Snape’s. Behind ten layers of Occlumency lies the truth. Or something like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Crack in Everything

Potter isn’t even that powerful. In Snape’s eyes, that was probably the worst thing about his new master. At least the Dark Lord—Tom, as Potter derisively referred to him—had been a wizard to fear, to revere, to kneel before in deference of his superior ability.

Potter still couldn’t brew a potion to save his life.

That, Snape knew, was what _he_ was for. Lord Potter’s potioneer. His right-hand wizard.

How it had come to this, Snape loathed to recount. It had begun simply enough, with Potter invading his time and space with infuriating and far too personal questions about the Dark Lord, and about Snape. From there a descending spiral, a miasma of possession and pain until Potter sat upon a throne and Snape realised his life had not changed at all.

Potter’s power was ugly. Snape was witnessing it now, his awkward and unworthy lord wielding a wand whose abilities he’d never be able to unleash. Great, stalling arcs and swings, flashes of light landing on target after target, wooden dummies destroyed but never demolished. No, the only thing Potter had ever properly annihilated had been the Dark Lord himself.

After a final explosion—Snape never flinched—Potter sighed and sat back in the throne. A twisted, violent looking seat of power, too big for Potter in every way.

“The potions, Snape?”

“Underway,” Snape confirmed. Even more than with the Dark Lord, Snape had learned to mind his tongue, his expressions, his tone of voice. Potter didn’t like him getting sardonic, didn’t like when Snape said one thing and meant another with his eyes.

With Potter, everything must be _meant_.

“Good.” Potter sighed again, something of which he was very fond. He seemed to be waiting for something while doing everything in his power to make it appear that he wasn’t.

“Would you care to retire, Lord?” Snape asked. There was no innuendo of _for you must be very tired after all that fruitless blustering_ , or _little boys need their rest_ \--both of which he thought behind ten levels of Occlumency. There were parts of his mind that he gave to Potter, to settle him, to reassure him. But there were sections, deep within, behind intricate locks and rusted hinges, that were only Snape’s.

Potter nodded and looked relieved. He took Snape’s suggestion as acquiescence, as permission and even desire. Snape let him think these things. It was easier for both of them.

In Potter’s bedroom—always Potter’s, though Snape spent just as much time there and only rarely his own designated space—Snape let down a layer or two of mind protection, not enough to be bare but enough to show Potter that he was letting him in, ever more.

It was a dance: only Snape knew the steps, and Potter let him lead.

“It was a productive day,” Snape observed, keeping his voice as casual as he knew how. He stepped before Potter and lifted his hands halfway to Potter’s robes, waiting for permission, which was granted with a nod. He began to unbutton the robes, fingers quick and unaffectionate. This was a duty. He found no pleasure in Potter. Behind eight layers, he swore that to himself.

“I’m not meant for this.” Potter’s words were quiet, not sad or disappointed but tired.

“No man is born a leader. He must learn.” Snape put the robes away, precise and exact, not for Potter but for himself. Despite Potter’s morose demeanour, his erection was strong, tenting his pants in a way Snape knew Potter himself found comical. Not today, though.

“Will you get undressed as well?” Potter asked.

“If you wish.”

Potter nodded. He hooked his thumbs into his pants and tugged them down, mis-stepping a little when trying to kick them away. Snape bent and picked them up, putting them in the laundry for the house-elves. He watched as Potter sat on the bed, seeming to collect himself. Then he reclined against the headboard, his eyes closed.

It was difficult for Snape to watch him, to see him naked and hard. His lord should be powerful, never vulnerable. He had never seen the Dark Lord like this and for good reason. Voldemort had hated to seem weak in any way. Though there was nothing weak about Potter’s body. He was paling due to his rigorous training but still tan by Snape’s standards. He was lean but muscled, legs and arms covered in thick black hair, only a smattering of it on his chest, by far the thickest at his crotch. A full and not unimpressive cock rose from there, Potter’s hand cupping the base of it but not stroking.

Now it was Snape’s turn to sigh, though he did it behind his layers, only six now, or maybe five. Seeing Potter naked bared Snape a little in return, quite against his will. Potter was strangely beautiful, the way broken cobblestone was beautiful, or torn bed sheets. Something innocuous and innocent destroyed.

Snape undressed efficiently, as he did everything, and got into bed beside Potter. He moved under the covers, not content to be bared to the world like Potter. Potter turned to him, eyes large but never blank through the thin glass of his spectacles. Not for the first time Snape had to wonder if the glass changed something, if something was lost in translation between what Potter’s eyes were saying and what Snape read there.

Without preamble, Potter reached beneath the covers for Snape’s cock. He was flaccid and remained so for some time but Potter was relentless in this as in all things and eventually Snape had to hold his body still and keep his breaths even.

“Touch me,” Potter said, bringing Snape’s hand to his own cock.

They remained like that, stroking in tandem, Potter more vocal and visual. He watched Snape, watched first Snape’s cock and then Snape’s hand on his cock. His hips moved, his legs shifted, his head fell back. Snape was still.

“Let me kiss you.” Potter didn’t wait for an answer. His lips were on Snape’s, young and searching, unschooled. Another thing Snape was teaching him.

Snape slowed the kiss. Three layers now. Potter was stunning in his eagerness, his tongue darting out and searching instead of plundering on as he once had. He liked to tilt his head this way and that, finding the perfect position but never long enough to really get used to it. His hand clenched harder, almost yanking now on Snape’s cock. His foreskin made the motions easier—Potter’s circumcised prick was more difficult to navigate, but his plentiful pre-come eased the way, and really Snape didn’t care whether Potter liked it or not.

The position was uncomfortable and Snape’s back began to protest against the headboard. He sped his motions, felt Potter thicken, felt the kiss stutter, didn’t relent. Potter came, grunting into Snape’s mouth. Snape couldn’t really feel the come on his hand until it cooled.

Potter’s motions on Snape’s cock had slowed, and he took his hand away and moved between Snape’s legs, pushing them open, always demanding. He bent and took Snape’s prick into his mouth, without finesse, as deep as he could take it. Snape closed his eyes. In moments like these he could barely think, barely keep those last layers locked. Potter was no Dark Lord and would never be, not the way Snape needed him to be. But Potter would protect him, at least until he realised what Snape was trying to do. And maybe by then it would be too late.

Potter was inexperienced but enthusiastic and Snape focused on the slickness of his mouth, the fingers stroking and tugging the skin of his balls, the noises Potter made. Did he make them because he thought he should, like the wizards and witches in pornography did? Or because he was such a cockslut that he got off on sucking Snape? It never mattered. He came without a sound, hands tightening in the sheets instead of Potter’s hair as they wanted to.

One layer.

Potter rose up after a few teasing licks of Snape’s sensitive crown. He looked into Snape’s eyes, deep in. Did the glass lie? Snape wondered, tired and easy.

Then Snape felt Potter, deep within, breaking down doors and lighting things on fire. Urgent, violating pain wrenched him, and he tore away from Potter, stumbling out of the bed.

He glared at Potter, accusing. What had he seen? It was like he could still feel Potter within, staining him.

“No, Snape,” said Potter, sadly. “Not again.”

“I… I know.” Snape was shaken. He should have known Potter would try that. Had that been his plan all along? Once someone breached one’s Occlumency once, it was always easier for them to do it again.

“It isn’t the same with me. It can’t be.”

“I realise that.”

Potter sighed. He took off his glasses. He ran his hand through his hair. Then he threw the coverlet back. “Go to sleep, Snape.”

Snape returned to the bed. Potter slept but he did not. He had chosen the winning side, indeed, but at what cost to himself. Potter would not be a Dark Lord. But Snape wasn’t giving up on him.

He rebuilt his layers and watched Potter sleep.


End file.
